Plucked in a Far-off Land
Flash-fiction/Prose poem - by Gene Twaronite
Like pilgrim’s wither’d wreath of flowers pluck’d in a far-off land.
—Opening poem of Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
They’re all that remain of the journey, a descent into a dark world where no flower could possibly grow, yet there they were, glowing vivaciously in her head lamp, defying all logic and science.
She had travelled far and long to seek the dead on a silent planet whose sun had not shone for centuries, where the once thriving civilization sought shelter underground as the light of hope faded. Deep below the sand blasted stumps of once tall skyscrapers and monoliths she followed a steep lava tube, which after many miles abruptly gave way to chiseled steps and polished walls upon which symbols resembling hieroglyphs appeared, with pictures of what was obviously a sun and various objects she could not identify. But one seemed to be some kind of flower, though unlike any she had ever seen. Soon it was followed by another and another until they became the only symbol, endlessly repeated like floral exclamations. But no other trace could she find to tell the story of those who fled here below.
Exploring further, even the flower symbols died out. There was nothing more to see. She was about to turn back, but then a flash of bright colors greeted her gaze. The walls opened into a vast field of flowers of every hue and shape, growing defiantly in the pitch-black emptiness. She wandered through a dark cavern, filled with Kodachrome beds of color that blazed beneath her head lamp as far as she could see. Though their shape and structure were completely alien, she had decided to call them flowers in lieu of a better hypothesis. It was like some huge garden cathedral. There was a definite design here, with discrete paths winding among the beds. She wondered how such a thing could be possible. How could they continue to grow here without a source of light? It was as if all the last rays of the dying sun had been collected and concentrated here in these flowers to shine in the darkness for who knows how many centuries until someone would come to read a dead world’s final message of what it held most dear. For a long while, she stood there, with head lamp turned off, in silent reverie. She thought of an old Greek myth about the goddess of spring, a pilgrim just like her who descended into an underworld. Suddenly she knew what she must do. She flicked on her lamp and began to pick flower after flower as she genuflected before each bed. And she made of them a wreath to honor this journey and the flowers and memories that abide.